Something beginning with…
by elleyouseewhy
Summary: Being the world's only consulting detective was arguably a lot more fun when the corpses stayed dead...  Her heart was supposed to have stopped beating. He wasn't supposed to have a heart.
1. Chapter 1 …Dead

1- Dead.

It was cold.

Cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey. The kind of deeply penetrating cold that sucked out and crushed any tiny spark of warmth omitted from the surroundings. The kind of cold that not even a woolly jumper and cup of tea could fix.

It was the cold she felt first. It spread from the top of her neck in small waves down to the very end of her spine, pressing against her flesh like thousands of tiny barbed needles, prickling and snagging her skin as it went. The hairs on her arms rose and fell limply in response.

Scents came next- Sharp, metallic and clinical, with hints of expensive aftershave and anti-dandruff shampoo stirring on a slight draft. There was rubber too, and something dry but somehow sweet. Hot plastic?

Her surroundings were mainly metallic, she concluded, from actual metal and...yes, there was blood involved too.

This realisation was accompanied by taste. Saliva flooded into her mouth along with the sting of bile at her throat and the horrible iron of blood on her tongue.

Her ears began to ring. Air whooshed past the drums, moving the cilia hairs, pulling down with them the sounds of a too-high air conditioner and the gentle hum of electricity. A tap dripped. Somewhere in the distance two rumbles- one slightly deeper than the other- conversed in a mishmash of vibration. The harsh rattle of breath startled her until she recognised it as her own.

Of course. With smell there had to be an accompanying inhale and exhale. In. Out. In. Out. Lungs filling with air.

In her chest, another major organ frantically began pumping. Baboom. Baboom.

Bright light infiltrated the gap under her eyelids. She watched as blood started to trickle through the membranes again, turning orange and then red.

The distant rumble became more distinct. Voices. Male.

"…you go- two sugars, no milk."

"Thank you."

Pause.

"Shouldn't you wear a proper gown if you're doing that stuff?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? It's _hygiene_. And involves dry cleaning bills that we can't afford."

"Mrs. Hudson can deal with it."

"I'm not sure that sponging intestine-remnants from fine wool is really part of her job description, Sherlock."

"Isn't it?"

Irritable sigh. Mutter. "Fine, fine. You know best."

The clink of a clay-based substance lowered onto a metal surface. Slow thuds of footsteps and a pause nearby.

Her heart- yes, it was named a heart, she recalled- began to beat a little faster. The prickling at her neck grew more pronounced. She was sure that this meant something, her body was telling her, telling her that she had to do something…

Another clink. Metal on metal. An instrument turning over in it's case. The footsteps continued.

"So," It was the second male voice, closer, clearer now. "I'll start with the pericardial cut…"

Her heart beat faster.

A sudden sharp pain burned in her upper abdomen.

With a great gust of breath and strangled cry, she sat up, gasping, knocking away the long, white fingers that had stabbed her, simultaneously shielding her eyes from the glare of the metal workbench and surrounding cabinets, utensils, white lino floor…

"WHAT THE-THE FUCK FUCKINGHELLTHEFUCKWHAT?"

A figure in beige rushed towards her, the very picture of bewilderment- right down to his wide eyes, his slack jaw and wild, jerking hand movements. He hit his companion around the back of the head, then apologised, then stared, too shocked to dare look away from the living dead girl.

The living dead girl looked down at her naked body with a frown, curiously lowering her hands to touch the spreading warmth of the red wound above her belly button. She pressed against the flow and watched it bloom between her fingers.

Raising her head to look at the two startled men by her slab-side, she swallowed, trembling. She licked her dry lips, a small, weak "oh" escaping her as- for the second time in the last 48 hours- she surrendered herself to the gathering darkness.


	2. Chapter 2 …Departed

**Hello! Apologies for not author-noting sooner, I'm new to this whole document uploading, updating shabazz...**

**Just wanted to say thankyou to all those lovely individuals who reviewed the first chapter- your comments were very encouraging! Although now there's a whole lot of OHMYGODI' going on, so hopefully I won't disappoint anyone...! Please please do keep on reviewing. This is my first fanfic, and I'm a first year English and Creative Writing student, so feedback on my eccentric writing style and weird, undeveloped plot lines is pretty much my life? Honesty is the key here people :) **

**That's enough from me anyway- Hope you enjoyyyyy. **

* * *

2- Departed. 

As a qualified doctor to the Queen's army, John Watson had witnessed a fair amount of surprising sights. Elbows on the wrong side of men's arms, limbs that were somehow still inexplicably attached to torsos, nasty red rashes that looked a bit like the face of Jesus if you squinted and tilted your head to the side, lumps and bumps, purple penises- there wasn't much that could shock John Watson these days.

… Except maybe dead girls coming back to life on the autopsy table.

"John." Small slap. "John."

"Mmmmfffffffffhhhhhhgggggg…"

"If you've quite finished gawping like some deranged gargoyle, you might want to sow her up again. The cut wasn't deep but she'll leak all over my lab if you don't do something soon."

John blinked, slowly, trying to regain focus on the situation at hand.

His flat mate's cool, entirely un-concerned face swam before him. Out of instinct, John hit him again. "She was alive!"

"I think that fact was made clear when she sat up, yes." Sherlock, as impenetrable as ever, barely seemed to register the slap. Instead he frowned slightly, sighing and sweeping across the mortuary in his long, blue, entirely impractical coat. "And I was so looking forward to this…"

It had been a slow week for Sherlock and John. Hell, it had been a slow fortnight if you didn't count the case of the serial dog-napper, which Sherlock certainly didn't. There were only so many experiments that could be carried out using kitchen equipment and even his favourite game of 'shoot the face on the wall' was growing tiresome- a mind of his ilk didn't cope with boredom very well and, quite frankly, the urge to watch Jeremy Kyle and repeats of the X-Factor was becoming an ever-more difficult impulse to quash.

John cautiously bent to examine the small wound on the girl's abdomen, blushing slightly as he did so. For some reason, knowing that the girl was alive made it suddenly not-okay for her to be naked. He dressed the wound quickly, Sherlock appearing at his side and holding a hypodermal aloft. Without warning, he stuck the needle roughly into the girl's arm and drew a small amount of blood, careering off with the sample again before John could even question it.

"Where are you going?" John called helplessly after the retreating back of his companion.

"Stay here for a moment. Make sure she doesn't leave."

Slam.

Silence.

John turned slowly on his heels, blowing air through his puffed cheeks. Okay… So… Just him and the naked living dead girl…

… And there was no denying that she had looked dead. Although her cheeks were now flushed in response to the cold (John hastily grabbed a white lab coat from a peg by the door and threw it over her, averting his eyes as he did so), something of a grey, deathly pallor still clung to face, her eyes bruised and shadowed through the papery skin underneath. Even her lips were asphyxiation-blue and her short, blonde hair was matted and snarled around her face. She can't have been any older the nineteen. Not a living dead girl then, a living dead young woman. Tall. Size 7 feet.

"What on earth are you doing here?" John asked and then wondered to whom he was speaking. It was far too late in the day for intelligent conversation. It was far too late in the day for impossible and ridiculous situations like, say, DEAD PEOPLE COMING BACK TO LIFE.

Passing a hand over his face to stifle his yawn, John turned his back on the girl and reached for his much-needed coffee.

The rim of the mug barely brushed his lips before a blunt, heavy object made contact with the back of his head.

* * *

On reflection, running- sorry- pretty much streaking, through the streets of London at one in the morning in mid October with no shoes was not a particularly smart idea. Given, there had not been a great deal of material to hand. Short of stealing the beige mans shoes, she highly doubted that a mortuary would offer much in the way of 'practical footwear', unless you were planning to craft them from the bowels of the recently deceased.

She pressed on, regardless.

The growing pain in her right heel indicated yet another broken bottle had found its way into her path. Her pace, however, did not drop. She pounded the streets as though her life (Death? Was this heaven? If so, she hoped she'd kept the receipt) depended on it.

Another corner.

Where the hell was she?

It's not everyday you wake up dead.

Running _had_ seemed to be a very sensible course of action. But now she was lost. And it was late. And raining. And she wasn't wearing any bloody knickers.

The girl was also dimly aware of a number of people following her. A few complicated road crossings and counter-crossings confirmed the fact, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember or understand the feeling of dread that crept up her spine.

Or… was it exasperation?

Regent's Park loomed ahead, a shining beacon of familiarity in her otherwise rather clouded mind. Regent's Park sounded safe. Stately.

She stumbled along it's paths for a number of minutes before she changed the definition of the place: 'Stately'; (adj,)[staytlee]. 1. Secluded and dark and potentially a very, very bad choice of venue for hiding place when you are being followed by a gang of 3- no, wait- 4, individuals.

Too much thinking.

Her bare feet slid in the muddy puddles; it was inevitable that she should fall. She managed to maintain balance with four, but was lost on the fifth, which was deeper. She pushed herself up again, but her muscles were as weak and feeble as a new born kittens and she fell back down almost instantly… and the shadows had closed in.

The bulkiest pulled her roughly from the floor, holding back her arms as she struggled to get free. Dimly, she remembered that she should feel fear, this was a scary situation to find oneself afterall, but either due to the shock of being stabbed and dead or just generally being used to absurd and potentially life-threatening situations, she felt quite calm. Cocky, even.

A stockier, but surprisingly well-groomed man stepped out from around a tree , looking the girl up and down with a sneer. "All this trouble just for some brat?" With a cruel laugh, he produced a flick knife from his sleeve, holding it close to her cheek. The cold metal against her skin reminded her of the mortuary. "You know why you're here, girly?"

"No," she replied, smoothly- Quite honestly too. Only… vague recollections _were_ coming back to her. A short man with a calm voice and a needle, the unbearable brown walls, escape, capture, instructions… Then the ice blue eyes and the scalpel stuck in her belly. "Who are you?"

"The worst, the very worst."

The girl laughed. Oh god, was this hysteria? "Terrifying. Although, you really must be terrible- in the primary sense of the word- if it's taken four of you to dispatch of little old me."

She received a sharp slap for her insolence, the sting on her cheek barely notable in the surrounding cold. "He said she'd be like this." Piped up the third man, who had so far done little more than stand and drool and scratch his head. "Chatty."

"I prefer obnoxious." The girl replied dryly.

"Enough," The well-groomed one who had spoken first grabbed a handful of the girls hair and pulled her towards him, the knife still aimed towards her jugular. He brought his face close to hers, breathing lasagna with too much garlic. "We've been sent to make sure you're doing your job. Far as I know, that didn't involve you taking a jolly out to the park."

The scene swam before the girl's eyes. Perhaps she should've waited for the drug to leave her system before 'taking a jolly to the park'.

The fist in her hair tightened, shaking her head roughly from side to side. "You do remember your duty, don't you girly? Otherwise, you and my knife are going to have a little fallings out."

"Knives." The girl said slowly, oblivious to the threat on her life. "Is that a specialty? I'm trying to remember, but I'm really struggling! Couldn't you just give me a hint? Who sent you? Does it have anything to do with the other bodies? Which body was it?"

"My, now that sounds interesting." A fifth figure emerged from the trees. A figure in a big coat. "Do continue."

She found her face in close contact to the floor again as the leader released her, turning around to face the newcomer. He spread his arms in a gesture of openness. "Good sir, there's really no need to get involved here. You haven't seen nothing to worry yourself with."

"Haven't seen _anything_," Sherlock Holmes corrected wryly, squinting down at the living dead girl with mud streaked across her borrowed lab coat. What a bizarre creature… at least she was becoming more interesting alive than she ever could have been dead.

The leader chuckled. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet, removing a thick wad of cash. "How much do you want for your memory of this, mate?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued to walk towards the gang. "Did I hear something about a body?"

The gang leader took another threatening step forwards, blocking the taller man's path. "Look, I know you're probably feeling a strong sense of duty right now. A chivalrous desire to save the fair maiden, perhaps? All very commendable, but, if I were you, I'd take the money and leave."

Sherlock sighed impatiently, looking down his long nose at the other man in disgust. "I'm not interested in your money, I want to hear her story! Besides which, I really do dislike other people tampering with my experiments."

The girl's gaze flicked between the two men squaring up to one another and she took her chance; jumping to her feet, she threw herself forwards, towards her unlikely hero (he had stabbed her, after all). Her attempt at escape was futile, however. Before she had taken so much as another step, the leader swung about, his fist colliding with the girls face with so much force that she fell cleanly backwards onto the ground.

In the calm, firm voice that came so naturally to him, Sherlock stated his demands. "Let the girl go."

The leader spat on the floor, twirling his knife in the palm of his hand. "Or what?"

The girl sat up gain; cautiously, unsteadily, Sherlock saw the mixture of confusion and respect in her wide, vivid blue eyes. She shivered as she crouched against the frigid ground. Sherlock found he felt no pity for her.

"I simply believe we're done here." Sherlock said coolly. He hadn't moved an inch throughout the whole encounter, standing straight and tall with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long coat.

The leader spat on the floor and lurched forward with his knife.

The girl couldn't see what occurred from her positioning on the ground, but a sickening crunch and bewildered cry of expletives, coupled with the soft 'splat' of the knife hitting the soft floor indicated that the tall stranger had won the tussle.

Cradling his broken, mangled hand, the leader stumbled backwards, half running from the imposing man in the long coat. Fixing the girl with a glare and scowl, he growled as he ran past her, "Don't you think this is over, bitch. Remember."

She waited until the shouts of the thug-men had turned into mumbles and then to whispers on the breeze before attempting to right herself.

The tall figure offered her no assistance. For all his bravado and overwhelming charisma, he was hopelessly awkward in the area of chivalry. Stiffly, he enquired as to her general health.

She nodded, swaying slightly where she stood. "I'm fine. Just…just let me sleep and I'll…"

"I can take you back to Saint Bart's, so long as you promise not to assault my assistant or run off again. I'm not used to having to chase down my corpses." The tall man turned and began walking away from her at some speed. "You are a dead girl walking."

"It's more of a limp, right now," the girl called after him, at somewhat of a loss. There really wasn't a chick-lit novel on earth that taught you how to interact with a man who has seen your naked body in terms of an autopsy… Do you let him take you back to his lab?

Sherlock glanced back at the newcomer, a ghostly figure in white stranded amongst the trees. "Fortunately, I've had a taxi waiting for us for the past 20 minutes… I hope there's some cash in that coat of yours."

Slowly, hesitantly, very much _without_ the support of her knight in shining armor, the girl followed… Despite the pain in her foot and the weariness that dragged at her resolve, she followed. She had to follow. Because she remembered why she was there.


End file.
